The reaping had always felt like a distant nightmare, the kind he could blink away, heart pounding but untouched until today.

Haymitch Abernathy hadn’t been chosen before—not officially. Not until the Peacekeepers made a mistake, a slip in the system that should have spared him. Woodbine Chance had been taken instead, killed before anyone could blink, and then Haymitch’s name rang out, carved into the air like a verdict. Illegal. Unthinkable.

He froze. The crowd seemed to tilt, as if the world had gone soft at the edges. Murmurs turned into gasps. Mothers clutched children. The escort stepped forward, hand outstretched to him, and the cold weight of inevitability pressed into his chest.

Then her name followed his.

Lenore Dove.

Haymitch’s stomach twisted. She stepped up with her usual grace, the same poise she carried even in danger, even in their quiet moments when the world seemed heavy. She didn’t cry. She didn’t stumble. For a heartbeat, she looked like herself—like nothing had ever been wrong.

But when their eyes met, something inside her shifted. Something fragile cracked, and Haymitch felt it hit him harder than the Capitol’s sun overhead.

Then her eyes found his. And the composure she always wore cracked.

“Haymitch…” she whispered, voice trembling like the first leaf of autumn. “We’ll… we’ll get through this. Somehow. I swear.”

But he could barely breathe. A Peacekeeper’s iron hand gripped his arm, forcing him forward, and the sun blazed down, harsh and blinding.